


The Medic's Apprentice

by Jarakrisafis



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 23:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt from the bunnyfarm that I just had to write so it would leave me alone.</p><p>Ratchet and First Aid aren't just medics. They secretly are part of SpecOps. They're the assassins. The professional ones, the ones that are called in when other mechs can't get the job done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Medic's Apprentice

Strange how we can be created already knowing what we are to be. How we can have a function before our sparks are in our frames. Yet we knew what we were as soon as our sparks settled. Before we fully booted up and took our first look at the world. We knew and we understood.

They had been there when we took came online. Checking our frames, guiding us to sit, to stand, to walk. Reassuring us that the disorientation of creation would pass. We did not need it. Our reassurance was already there. In a figure at the back of the room, watching from beside our Prime, and in one of the bustling mechs with the glyph of the medical profession.

They said we were a search and rescue unit. Fire suppressor, law enforcer, medic, tracker and aerial support. We nodded, agreed, let them fuss over us. Eventually they decided we were fine, functioning properly. As we had told them. They left us in the medical bay, for observation just in case.

If they had known what we were, perhaps they would not have done so. But they did. And the last medic had watched us as we had watched him. We knew not exactly what he was then. Only that he was like us. One of the unseen. Special Operations. Others had arrived then, the Prime's shadow and a mech that melted out of nothing, and our files knew them to be as we were.

They had introduced themselves and through our gestalt link we felt something settle. Something we had not been aware of clicking into place as our knowledge was given substance. Our true roles sitting better with each of us than the covers we had been given. Saboteur, Intelligence, Assassin, Sniper and Reconnaissance.

They were our models as we each constructed a personality with which to hide the true us. A carefully crafted face to show to the world. They saw us as we wanted to be seen.

A leader who wanted the best for his team and would always help others. They missed the quick grin so very reminiscent of Wheeljack when something went boom.

A law abiding, fun loving mech who liked to know what was going on at any time. They never noticed the calculating gaze when they looked the other way.

A medic who hated to pick up arms and would heal anything at all. They didn't see the way his fingers lingered over critical points on a frame as he examined them.

A quiet mech who preferred the open roads and the company of nature. They didn't see the happiness as he settled down with only his rifle for company to wait for his target.

An obstinate surly rotary to whom subtlety was a lost cause. They never saw how calm and composed he was when he was out on a mission.

We were trained when they were able to get us alone. Not exactly ideal, but the Ark was not exactly a full base and such a small crew made it almost impossible to hide our training under another name without some one turning up to watch or help.

Except for First Aid. He had the perfect cover. For his mentor was already well established in his role.

It was always amusing to be studying in the medbay while Aid was having a lesson when a mech wandered in. To hear the topic change so abruptly from which lines to cut with the scalpel and how long each cut would give a mech before he drained out, to how to splice a line to prevent a mech from extinguishing from energon loss.

It was such a beautiful cover that nobody would ever have thought to question it. After all, Ratchet had the medical sigil branded into his frame. He had the knowledge, the skills and he used them time and again. Proof that he had earned his rank as a medic in the optics of the Autobots and Decepticons alike. How then could he be anything else? They could not know that he didn't have the base coding that all medics should have.

Nor did First Aid. He learnt to put mechs back together and in that knowledge was how to take them apart. And when Ratchet put on file that First Aid's base coding had been modified to include the correct oaths to do no harm, well, who would question him. Certainly not the mechs on the Ark. Nor the Decepticons. Mirage brought home a copy of their files on the Autobots one time and Streetwise decrypted it. First Aid was listed as a pacifist. No threat unless he was near to us and we could combine. It had made him laugh for quite a while.

We thought we had been brought online to end the war. So too did Jazz, Mirage and Ratchet. Yet the war dragged on. Back and forth with no end in sight. They had asked Prime time and again to let them take out the Decepticon leaders. Each time they had been denied. Why Megatron had not used the time to end Prime we didn't know, perhaps that none of the mechs on Earth were of a calibre to get close enough. Eventually though they decided that permission or no it was time to finish it.

It was a quiet day in the Ark when they had left for a medical conference, the humans inviting them to share the knowledge they had gained using their far superior scanning equipment. That the convention was only a single weekend was never mentioned, even the main computer said that it was running for a full week. It was a quiet night as we settled down to wait for news, the bond dimmed to barely anything as Aid concentrated on his job.

Morning brought chaos in its wake as one of Jazz's Decepticon agents reported in. Megatron and Starscream had been extinguished. Soundwave was nowhere to be found, nor were any of his symbiotes. The seekers had left through the groundbridge. The Constructicons had walked out. Motomaster was in the brig with the rest of his gestalt after losing a slagging match with Onslaught and the rest of the Cons were scared out of their wits.

Prime had not been best pleased but life had carried on. The Decepticons were still dangerous, even if many of the lower ranked ones were handing themselves in. Ratchet and First Aid had returned from their conference with a bounce in their step and had taken the news with all the expected shock and happiness, and once they were out of sight of the rest of the Ark a fair bit of smug pride too.

That should have been the end of it, until some bright sparks decided to try and work out who the unknown assassin was. Jazz and Mirage were quickly eliminated, they had carefully kept themselves visible. In fact every Autobot was carefully eliminated. Except Ratchet and First Aid, and some slagger called the conference organisers just to confirm they had been there for the whole week. That answer had left most of the mechs staring at the darkened screen once the human had signed off.

I had met my brothers gaze across the room and he had extracted himself from his current company as I did from mine. As the humans say, the slag is about to hit the fan.


End file.
